Unaproachable
by Annamia
Summary: He had been watching her all year... He couldn’t help it. He was infatuated. Draco Malfoy reflects on Cho Chang. DMCC. GoF. Bit of an AU


Need I say that all things Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling?  
Set during GoF. Draco POV. DM/CC (Well, sort of). A bit of an AU I suppose, especially at the end. I think that's about it...

Unapproachable

He had been watching her all year. Her long black hair, the color of the ravens that flocked around the manor. Her dark eyes, those eyes that could say so much or nothing at all. Her perfect complexion, creamy and flawless. The graceful way she walked, like a dancer. Her smile, heartwarming and wonderful. He couldn't help it. He was infatuated.

It was plain that she didn't return the feeling. She was with that idiot Diggory, just like always. Diggory. Potter. They always got the girls. He never got anyone.

Yet he couldn't hate her. He tried, tried as hard as he could to forget and hate. It would be easier if he could forget, if he could hate her like he hated everyone else. But he couldn't. something in him wouldn't let him.

She was radiant after the ball. She was always stunning, but this was special. He felt his hatred of Diggory boil and expand, and tried yet again to hate her. It was useless. He could no more hate her than he could hate himself.

At the second task, he'd been terrified. She'd vanished, gone without a trace. He was sick with fear. And then Diggory pulled her up, and he cheered with everyone else, letting out his relief along with his hatred.

They swarmed out of the stands, but not before he saw him lean down and kiss her. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and tender. It was the kind of kiss that he wanted to give her, and he hungered to see the look in her eyes directed at him. It was a fool's dream, but it was all he had.

The third task, the most anticipated of all. He showed up early and sat just far enough away from her to watch without being obvious. There wasn't much to see of the actual task, and he drank in her form. Her eyes, bright and shining with hope and faith, her hair, carefully brushed and left loose. A sign of respect, he knew. If Diggory won, she would sweep it back and fix a red rose in it. If he lost, she would let it hand, but adorn it with a single violet. She would be heartbreakingly beautiful either way, but none so much as in those minutes: her hair undecided, her eyes gleaming with more than simple excitement. She was wearing her school robes, but she looked better in them than anyone ever had. He was intoxicated, and couldn't have taken his eyes off her if he tried.

And then Potter came back. Alone. Carrying Diggory's body. She blanched, and her eyes, so bright only a moment before, dulled with shock and disbelief. She stood, unable to stop herself, and took a few halting steps towards the body. Someone, a faceless girl he didn't know, tried to hold her back, but she moved anyway. She didn't touch the body, or even go any closer. She just stood there, looking, watching, trying to deny the truth. In a trance, she raised her wand and pointed it at herself. He froze, willing her not to do what he was sure she would. She spoke one word, and there was a flash of blinding light. When he looked at her again, her hair, her long, glorious hair, the hair he'd envisioned running his fingers through over and over again had been badly mutilated. Where it had once reached slightly past her waste, it now ended just at her shoulders. It was a clean cut, and the chopped hair was nowhere to be seen. There were no tears yet, but he knew they would come. Nothing had sunk in yet. The hair was an automatic reaction, one born of generations of racial memory. The truth hadn't reared in her face yet. It would come. When it came, he feared that there would be more than just a haircut.

He didn't see her again until the last day. He'd been looking, but she was nowhere to be found. But here she was now, bravely showing her face out of respect and pride. She'd come for Diggory, and everybody knew it. She was mesmerizing. Her short hair was brushed to a glossy sheen and unadorned. She didn't wear school robed, but only a long, plain black dress. It was simple, yet breathtaking. It fit her slim figure perfectly descending all the way to the floor. Her face was free of makeup for the first time since he'd known her, and she was holding her head high. She wore no shoes, but placed one bare foot in front of the other solemnly, looking neither left nor right. She took her seat at the table, not listening to a word Dumbledore said. He didn't either. When the food appeared, she didn't touch it. He didn't eat either. He wasn't hungry.

The meal ended finally. She stood and walked calmly to the front of the Great Hall. She stood, facing the students for a long moment, then closed her eyes and lifted her face to the enchanted ceiling. She opened her mouth and began to sing. Her pure, perfect voice filled the room, leaving none unmoved. The words were foreign, but he didn't care. He felt connected to her in a way he never had before. So did everyone else. Tears were running down her face, but her voice stayed steady. When she finished, she mounted the two steps to Diggory's coffin. She pulled a single violet and a single white rose out of an invisible pocked and placed one at each of his hands. They were real flowers, not conjured ones, but their scent permeated the Great Hall. She bowed her head, and her tears dropped onto his cold face. Gently, she closed the lid of his coffin, not letting it bang with finality, but rather click with a note of hope. She met no one's eyes as she walked down the stairs and out of the Great Hall.

He saw her the next day, weeping in her mother's arms. He lingered, needing to look at her one last time before leaving for the summer. She was as ethereal as always, unconcerned about anything but her grief. Her body was trembling, and her mother was holding her tightly. She was dressed in black: a skirt and long sleeved top. Anyone who knew her culture knew that she'd suffered an irreplaceable loss. A hot surge of emotion flooded through him, and he turned away, feeling as though he were intruding on an intensely private moment. Slowly, he walked out into the sunshine, looking neither left nor right. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but there was nothing he could do. She was never meant for him, and he would never have her. Stepping into the car that would take him to the only home he had, Draco Malfoy wished again that he could hate Cho Chang. But he couldn't, and he couldn't cry for her either.


End file.
